


Kitsch

by PantyDragon



Category: Forgotten Realms, The Legend of Drizzt Series - R. A. Salvatore
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-25 15:29:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2626820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PantyDragon/pseuds/PantyDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A vignette about Jarlaxle's hat ruining Zaknafein's day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kitsch

**Author's Note:**

> Not necessarily related to my other Zak/Jarlaxle fics, I just wrote it for bonbonbunny a while ago and I still think it's funny.

“No.”

“...What?” Jarlaxle lilted, falsely scandalized.

“Take it off.”

A smile crept across his face. “Why?”

Zaknafein scowled. Or rather, he scowled more deeply, as there was scarcely a moment when he was not scowling, at least halfheartedly. “Because you look ridiculous.”

Jarlaxle hummed dismissively, raising his chin and turning his head in a theatrical and entirely unnecessary manner. “ _You_ have poor taste.”

“ _Take it off._ ”

“It was good enough for him,” he protested, using his foot to prod the motionless body on the floor nearby. The party they had encountered had been – strangely enough – four human men. It had been an unexpected sight, even in the upper tunnels, so far from Menzoberranzan, but the surface-dwellers had stood no chance in the oppressive darkness. The two young patrolmen had both heard and smelled them coming nearly a mile off, and would not even have bothered to dispatch them had they not done exactly what humans always do upon encountering dark elves.

Jarlaxle's grasp of Common was in its infancy, but he had deciphered enough of the men's frantic, aggressive shouting to know that the slit throats had been well deserved.

“Yes, and he is dead,” Zaknafein retorted, “you can see how very successful his choices made him, now get rid of that or I shall take it from you and cut it into shoelaces.”

“I dare you to try.” He was positively fondling it now. “It is enchanted,” he announced, turning it over in his hands a few times, “it could be worth something.”

“I could find you a hundred more enchanted items that are a hundred times more dignified.”

“I thought you disapproved of looting corpses.”

“I will tolerate an exception,” he growled.

Jarlaxle wrinkled is nose, musing for a moment. “I think it needs a plume.” With an air of finality, he spun the pilfered hat on his hand and replaced it on his head, feeling immediately exceptionally peacockish and generally very pleased with himself for ruffling Zaknafein so thoroughly.

“Just kill me.” Zaknafein grumbled, “I shall never be free of you. This I the last time we go so far from the perimeter, I cannot risk you coming upon more absurd kitsch to add to this collection of yours. Established patrol routes only.”

“It is a blessing indeed that you are so talented a fighter, Zaknafein, because I have known dead lizards with more charming personalities. And I say that in a very caring way.”

“You have enough _personality_ for both of us and then some.”

“What great fortune it is, then, that we are friends.” He tipped the wide-brimmed hat from his head and made a move to place it playfully on his companion's, but Zaknafein caught it and snatched it away. The smile that pulled at Jarlaxle's lips revealed his certainty that every one of his friend's threats had been hollow, and it was with frustration but no venom that Zaknafein tossed Jarlaxle's new favorite item back to its dubious owner.

“Do not parade around Menzoberranzan in it, at least,” he warned, “you draw enough attention, cutting your hair as you do and mocking every priestess you come across. I suspect it will not take much more provocation before your Matron sacrifices you. Successfully this time.”

“Oh, were you not aware?” He sang out, “I am an Agent of Lolth, Bringer of Chaos!” He laughed as he replaced his hat with a flourish.

“If I believed that, I would have killed you already, and without a shred of remorse.”

“Shh,” Jarlaxle theatrically threw one arm over his companion's shoulder and pulled their faces together in feigned alarm, bending the brim of his hat against Zaknafen's eyebrow. “Her Majesty the Cootie Queen is ever-vigilant. She punishes those who speak against her.”

Zaknafein could not suppress his amusement at “ _Ilta Ib'ahalii l' Kier Valsharess_ ”: “Her Majesty the Cootie Queen,” and both were soon beset with a fit of very undignified laughter.

“We have to rejoin the patrol,” Zaknafein said finally, running his fingers through his hair where Jarlaxle's enthusiasm had trussed it up a bit. “We are a day late already, they will begin to wonder if we have deserted.”

“We would, if we had a shred of sense,” Jarlaxle reminded him with a sigh, adjusting his hat affectionately.

“You invite reproach, saying such things.”

“Yes, I invite it, and I feed it and give it gifts and let it stay the night.”

“Stop,” he insisted, “we head down and west, you can come if you know what is good for you, but I will not make excuses for the hat.”

“I shan't take it off.”

“I know, such is your problem.”

“I adore you, my friend.”

Zaknafein rolled his eyes and set off back down the tunnel. “I can barely tolerate you, to be honest.”

Jarlaxle's amused grin, ever lurking just behind his eyes, surfaced triumphantly. “I think, in this case, we mean the same thing.”


End file.
